


The nine pins

by bagma



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:08:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bagma/pseuds/bagma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam discovers that magic, like love, is unpredictable. Written for the "Hijinks" Waymeet Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The nine pins

“Sam, look at this one !” Frodo exclaimed, his voice full of excitment, and Sam paused to peer at him over the rim of the wooden crate he was opening. His master was sitting cross-legged on the floor beside another crate, a book open on his lap. Surrounded by unsteady piles of old volumes, he had dust on his nose, cobwebs in his hair, and he looked as happy as a cat in a bowl of cream. Smiling indulgently, Sam put his crowbar down and crossed the study to sat down beside him and take a look at the book that captured his master’s attention. 

Frodo handed it to him, and Sam felt the soft brush of Frodo’s fingers on the back of his hand. The light touch made his skin tingle and his heart lurch weirdly against his ribcage. He quickly looked away from Frodo’s face and turned his attention to the book.

It was an ancient and heavy volume, bound in tan leather. The time-weathered pages were covered with drawings framed by meandering lines written in strange angular characters that Sam found very hard to decipher. Puzzled, he shut the book and looked at the title embossed on the cover in a more legible script. 

“Sp… What’s that? An e, maybe... Spells and Be… Bewitchments,” he read slowly, and his eyes widened in surprise. “Spells and Bewitchments… I can’t believe it! Is that a wizard’s book, do you think, Mr. Frodo?” he asked excitedly. Frodo nodded, beaming with delight.

“I think so, Sam. Isn’t that fascinating? Who’d have thought austere Uncle Dudo was interested in magic? It was very kind of him to leave his library to me, although I admit I was afraid it would be only old accounts and genealogy. But I’ve already found two books about dwarvish and elvish architecture and some chronicles about the Crossing of the Brandywine, and now this one… I’m pleasantly surprised,” he said, kneeling and looking over Sam’s shoulder while the gardener skimmed curiously through the book, careful not to damage the fragile pages with his callused fingers. Sam could feel soft curls tickling his ear and Frodo’s breath on his cheek. Trying to keep his own breathing in check, he said, his voice a little unsteady:

“I’m not sure Mr. Gandalf would approve of this kind of magic, though, Mr. Frodo. Did you see that drawing? It’s quite frightening,” Sam pointed out a rather crude rendering of what looked like a straw doll bound in a complex interlacing of black and white string. The caption read: The Most Well-Tried and Effective Spell to Bind and Compel. Frodo took the book again, considered the page for a few moments and sighed. He sounded a trifle deflated.

“I’m afraid you’re right, Sam… But it’s not as though I wanted to use the book to cast a spell on someone, you know. I’m just curious about it, it’s all. I’ll read it, but I’ll be careful to hide it the next time Gandalf pays me a visit…” he conceded, stroking the worn leather binding. “Don’t worry, I’m sure these bewitchments don’t work anyway. Look! There’s a love spell on this page… The Best Spell to Make True Love Reveal Itself and Blossom… What a mouthful! And we all know Uncle Dudo died a bitter bachelor, so obviously it didn’t work. And for me, I hope I’ll never need one,” he joked, angling the book so that Sam could see the drawing of another straw doll, this one adorned with bits of red string and what looked like thin silver nails.

Frodo speaking so casually about love caught Sam unawares, and he felt his face grow hot. Clearly, thinking about “love” and “Frodo” at the same time had a very disturbing effect on his constitution. He stared at the page without even seeing it, hoping that Frodo had not noticed the redness of his cheeks, and almost jumped out of his skin when his master closed the book briskly and got up on his feet.

“Well, I’ll read it later. I’ll let you know if I find something useful,” he said with a wink. “But for now, we have four crates full of books to explore before tea. Let’s work!” He grabbed his crowbar and made his way toward the next crate with a spring in his step Sam that found irresistible, even if he had some difficulty in sharing Frodo’s enthusiasm at the prospect of spending a beautiful July afternoon buried in dusty old volumes.

****

When Sam opened the door of his smial that evening, he was greeted by the homely aroma of bread baking and vegetable soup simmering on the stove and the comforting sight of Daisy sitting at the kitchen table, mending clothes and humming softly under her breath. He washed his dusty hands, gave the soup an appreciative sniff and his sister a peck on the cheek, and plopped down next to her with a heavy sigh. 

“Bad day, Sam?” Daisy asked kindly, pausing in her work and raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Not really, I’m just tired,” he answered succinctly, and began to play with the content of the sewing basket that lay between them, well aware he sounded grim but unable to force himself to smile. Daisy took a good look at her brother, but said nothing and resumed his mending.

Sam watched her for a while, hypnotized by the regular motion of her plump hand driving the needle and its tail of thread through the fabric of a pair of old breeches, over and over again. It mirrored the course of his thoughts, which were uncomfortably wavering between the joy of having spent several hours in the same room as Frodo, and an intense frustration at not being able to find a way to express how he felt.

He had loved Frodo for years. Actually he could not remember a time in his life when he had not been looking up to him, first as a faithful servant, and later, after Mr. Bilbo had gone, as a friend. The nature of his feelings had drastically changed over the few last months, though, and could hardly be described as friendly any longer. Sam was unable to determine whether it was because he had turned twenty-nine in March and his friends had been dropping unsubtle hints that he should start looking for a wife now that he was near his coming of age, making him realize he was not really interested in lasses, or because maturity made the scales fall of his eyes and he finally took notice of Frodo’s beauty. 

But whatever the reason for this change of heart, he knew he could not get back to his previous state of childish unawareness. Now there was no denying he was in love with Frodo. He wanted him so much that desire felt like a constant physical ache, made worse by the fact that he was absolutely, painfully sure he would never be bold enough to reveal his feelings. 

Sam bit back another sigh, not wanting to draw his sister’s attention to his melancholy mood again. He absently fingered a braid of colourful silk ribbons, then a pair of tiny scissors -which earned him a warning look-, wishing his heart and his mind were as well-ordered as Daisy’s sewing basket. 

What made things worse was that he could have sworn those feelings were mutual. Frodo, although never indiscreet, did not make a mystery of his predilection for lads. Many times Sam had caught Frodo watching him intently, his gaze heated and his cheeks flushed, or standing beside him a little closer than it was really necessary. Even more conclusive, he had a striking memory of Frodo’s very obvious reaction to the sight of Sam removing his shirt and using it to wipe his sweaty chest on a stifling afternoon, less than a week ago. Looks could easily be misinterpreted, Sam thought, but the rather impressive bulge in Frodo’s breeches was not something one could easily ignore or put down to sheer coincidence.

Nothing came of the incident, though. Sam was too shy and too aware of his place to take the initiative, and he knew Frodo was too respecful a gentlehobbit to impose himself upon a gardener if the aforesaid gardener had not made his willingness crystal clear beforehand. And unfortunately Sam could not do that. More often than not these past few months he had the discouraging feeling that they would stand forever on opposite sides of a barrier made of shyness and good breeding, looking longingly at each other but unable to cross it. It was so frustrating that sometimes Sam wondered whether he might not be better off leaving Hobbiton altogether and settling in some place where he would not have to endure that torture every day.

His silent brooding was interrupted by a sudden sting in his middle finger. He pulled his hand out of the sewing basket with a hiss of surprise and saw that a small silver pin was stuck under his nail.

“Samwise Gamgee! Don’t play with Ma’s love pins!” Daisy exclaimed severely. She hastily put her sewing down on the table and took Sam’s hand in her own.

“I’d say it’s rather the other way round,” he protested gruffly, but allowed her to remove the pin from his finger without further complaining.

“But what are those “love pins” of Ma’s, anyway?” he asked her after a moment, a little disconcerted by the fact that Daisy, usually one to drive her siblings to distraction with her mothering, was carefully cleaning the pin with her handkerchief instead of taking care of her younger brother’s finger.

“Don’t you remember the story?” Daisy sounded surprised. “Well, it’s true you were just a toddler when Ma passed away, you hadn’t turned three yet… And it’s not as though you’re opening the sewing basket every day,” she added wryly. She took a tiny pincushion, exquisely embroidered with a delicate motif of roses, out of the basket, replaced the wandering pin among the others with tender care and began telling her tale, her sewing lying forgotten on her lap.

“Ma’s always said she’d never have married Da but for these nine pins here. You see, she’d been in love with him for nearly two years, but she didn’t dare make the first move. And Da… He’s never been one to talk about his feelings…” She glanced at Sam and went on. “So one day Ma took her courage in both hands and sewed a beautiful shirt she gave him as a present for her thirtieth birthday. But she was so nervous and embarrassed that she forgot to remove these nine pins from the fabric, and the first time Da put the shirt on he had the surprise to find himself turned into a hedgehog. At first he thought Ma played a prank on him, and he got really cross. He brought her back the pins and the shirt and demanded an explanation. You know Da’s temper…” Daisy broke off and smiled knowingly as Sam’s winced. “Well, Ma was so ashamed that she nearly died on the spot. She didn’t die, obviously, but she fainted, and it was Da’s turn to become nervous and embarrassed. He patted her cheeks and hands and tried his best to comfort her, and he did so well that they got married three months later. Ma used to say it was like a fairy tale, and she was convinced there was something magical about these pins,” Daisy concluded, looking dreamily at the pincushion.

“Well, I have some difficulty in imagining Da playing Prince Charming, I must say,” Sam laughed, and Daisy stifled a scandalised giggle behind her hand. “But it’s a lovely story, and I’m happy I heard it. It’s so weird to think of our parents young and in love, though…” he trailed off as he remembered Frodo reading Uncle Dudo’s book and joking about the love spell. Driven by an impulse he was unable to repress, he heard himself ask Daisy:

“May I borrow the pins for a little while?” His sister eyed him warily.

“What for? If you want to try your hand at sewing, I’d prefer you use the plain ones, they’re sturdier,” she said in her most authoritative voice. Sam grinned sheepishly, displaying his most ingenuous expression in answer.

“I don’t think I’d be any good at sewing, honestly. No, I’d just like to… well, keep them, and look at them. You’re going to find this funny, but I feel I’m remembering Ma a little better when I look at them…” Sam knew his sister’s weak points well, and he was not surprised to see Daisy’s stern expression soften considerably. She leaned forward to kiss him and Sam felt her lips brush his cheek. She smelled faintly of lavender and fresh bread, a homely and comforting scent that reminded him of his childhood and made him feel a little nostalgic.

“You’re a big baby, Sam,” she said with grudging tenderness. “Alright, take them, but don’t lose them!”

“I won’t, I promise,” he answered, carefully pocketing the pincushion and trying not to think about the lie he had just told his sister. Well, it was not exactly a lie, was it? The pins did remind him of his mother. But filial affection was not the reason he had borrowed them, and he knew it very well.

****

Sam slipped into the tool shed and hastily locked the door, the rusty bolt squeaking unervingly when Sam drew it. It was hot in the small cabin and he had to wipe his sweaty brow on his shirtsleeve, but he did not dare open the window. Frodo had been holled up in the study doing his accounts since lunch, but Sam did not want to take any risk.

He meticulously dusted the work bench, then took Uncle Dudo’s book of spells –oblingingly lent to him by an amused and slightly surprised Frodo- out of a drawer, opened it and began to reread the love spell once again. It was not really necessary; he had been reading it so often in the last three days that he could have sworn he knew it by heart.

After a couple of careful rereadings, he put the book down and headed for the old padlocked chest in which he kept the few insecticides and fungicides he used in the garden. He made quick work of the lock and lifted the lid, revealing several glass bottles and, nestled between them, a straw doll.

Sam stared at it for a long moment, swallowing hard. The doll looked utterly inoffensive, slumped against a phial like a child’s toy forgotten after a game. It was about six inches high, with spindly arms and legs and a rounded head tied up with red string, and it was wearing an old handkerchief of Frodo’s for a loincloth, which gave it a comical air. Sam made the doll the day before, scrupulously following the instructions. It proved to be surprisingly easy. The only tricky part had been to find some nail clippings, Frodo having a habit of biting his nails to the quick. Fortunately it seemed he had not begun attacking his toenails yet, so Sam had only had to scour the bathroom floor to find what he needed.

As instructed, he had stuffed the clippings and the hair he had collected on Frodo’s pillowcase into the doll’s belly and dressed it in one of Frodo’s used handkerchiefs. It had been a relief to discover he did not need to put blood, spit or some other body fluid in the thing. Actually it appeared that the most important part in the love spell was the lover’s concentration and intensity of feelings while he was finalising the process, namely while he was sticking the pins into the doll. Sam was in no doubt about the intensity of his feelings, and the rest was only a matter of jabbing the pins correctly. Surely one did not need to be a highly skilled seamstress to achieve that.

Sam picked up the doll and put it on the work bench, his movements brisk and determined. He had been shillyshallying for days on end, and the need to do something, anything, had become overwhelming. He loved Frodo, and he was convinced Frodo loved him back, or at least desired him. The spell, provided that it worked, would allow them to reveal their feelings to each other, and Sam could find nothing wrong with that. And if he was delusional and the spell showed that Frodo did not love him… Well, he could always move to Nobottle, or even Brockenborings, heartbroken but free from the agony of suspense. And if the spell proved to be poppycock and nothing changed, he would just have to find another way to make himself understand.

Sam fished the embroidered pincushion from his pocket and put it down resolutely beside the doll. Taking a deep breath, he opened the book again and began to recite the incantation, a little unsteadily at first, then with more assurance. He had had a hard time deciphering it, but he read it so many times that the words sounded quite familiar by now, even if it felt a bit weird to hear his own voice chanting in a language he did not understand.

Once he had completed the incantation, he moved on to the last step and started concentrating his attention on Frodo. Seeing that he had been thinking of him almost constantly for months, that proved to be quite easy. His mind filled with images of Frodo’s face and body, he took a last glance at the book and began sliding the pins into the doll. He jabbed the first two into its feet, glad to see that he braided the straw tightly enough to keep the pins firmly in place. He placed the other pins in the doll’s hands, eyes and ears respectively. 

The last one was meant to pierce the heart, and Sam found himself hesitating, his hand hovering uncertainly over the doll. The thing looked disturbingly alive now, returning Sam’s gaze with its small silver eyes. Sam wiped his sweaty hands on his breeches, suddenly accutely aware of the deep silence reigning in the tool shed and the fast pounding of his heart. He shifted uncomfortably and adjusted his grip on the pin, admonishing himself not to be such a fool. It was just a doll, and he was certain that nothing wrong could come of his Ma’s love pins anyway. He took a couple of steadying breaths and stuck the pin into the small chest. 

Sam stared for a long moment at his handiwork and exhaled slowly, a little dizzy with the release of tension. Now it only remained for him to wait for the spell to work. 

If it ever did.

****

Sam considered himself of the patient sort, as every good gardener needs to be. You cannot rush vegetables, after all, and he had the feeling that the same law applied to love and magic. But as days turned to weeks and nothing happened, he began worrying and he had to stop himself from running to the tool shed three times a day to make sure the pins were still in place. They were, but Frodo’s demeanour towards him had not changed. He was polite and friendly as always, but Sam could often feel his master’s eyes on him, intense and passionate, and every time he was filled with an irrational surge of hope. But every time Sam’s gaze would met Frodo’s, they both would look away in haste and hope would die once again in Sam’s heart, only to be revived, then crushed a few hours later.

After three weeks of enduring that peculiar kind of sewsaw, Sam was ready to give up trying to be a magician. Obviously the spell had not worked, and Sam had just started thinking about what he would do next when Frodo had an accident that drove any concern about magical spells out of Sam’s mind for a while.

As accidents go, it had been a fairly stupid accident. At Master Cotton’s polite request, Frodo was visiting the farm to see the milk cow he had just bought at the Summer Fair when the splendid –and heavy- animal he was dutifully admiring had stepped on his left foot.

Sam was weeding the vegetable patch when a very embarrassed Master Cotton took Frodo back to Bag End in his cart. The farmer was red to the roots of his hair, in stark constrast with Frodo’s pale and rather pinched face. Startled, Sam droped his hoe and ran to the gate just in time to see Mr. Cotton help Frodo climb down from the cart, apologising profusely all along. Frodo’s foot was wrapped in several layers of white and blue plaid handkerchiefs, and Sam noticed in alarm that blood had seeped through the fabric. He barely heard the farmer’s confused explanations. Slipping his arm around Frodo’s waist, he supported him as he limped towards Bag End door. His master was leaning heavily against him, and the thought occurred to Sam that it was a great shame he was too upset to appreciate the contact of that warm and slender body.

“Go fetch the healer right now, Mr.Cotton! It’s the least thing you can do!” Sam snarled, his voice shaking with anger. 

“Don’t be too hard on him, Sam. That hurts, but I don’t think his cow broke my foot. And anyway it’s not his fault. The poor hobbit was so proud of that cow!” Frodo whispered in his ear.

“You’re too kind, Mr. Frodo, as always,” Sam answered gruffly, but he managed to keep his indignation in cheek and get Frodo settled in a chair with his injured foot propped on a stool. He hastened to put the kettle on and hurried back with a basinful of water to find Frodo undoing his makeshift bandage. The bloody fabric and his foothair had stuck together, and he hissed in pain.

“Wait, Mr. Frodo, I’ll help you!” Sam cried, kneeling before his master and taking the injured foot in slightly shaking hands. He put it carefully into the basin to soak off and found himself remembering some of his fantasies that were centered on Frodo’s lovely feet. He bit back a groan. Now was definitely not the time to let his thoughts wander.

Sam had just removed the soiled handkerchiefs and was staring in dismay at the ragged wound when a loud and authoritative rap made the door tremble and Sam jump to his feet. He let Dr. Banks in eagerly and led him to the kitchen, where Frodo welcomed the healer with a strained smile. To Sam’s deep relief, the doctor took charge with his usual cheerful efficiency, moving about in the kitchen with a briskness that belied the rotundness of his waistline. 

The healer palpated Frodo’s foot for several minutes, inquiring about the circumstances of the accident (it seemed that Master Cotton’s panicked explanations had been rather unclear) and Sam was very relieved to hear that the bones were indeed intact. The wound needed stitching, though; the process would be rather uncomfortable, Mr. Banks warned, and Frodo would have to keep perfectly still.

“I’ll hold your hand, Mr. Frodo, if you want to,” Sam exclaimed impulsively, and he felt himself blush as Frodo quickly slid his slim hand in Sam’s broad palm, a grateful expression on his pale face.

“Thank you, Sam! I’m afraid I’ll need the support,” he confessed sheepishly, then took a deep breath and gave a nod to the healer. So Sam sat beside Frodo and held his cold and sweaty hand while the healer washed and, to Sam’s consternation, shaved the injured foot. Frodo’s grip tightened when the stitching began, but he endured it stoically, barely wincing from time to time.

Finally Dr. Banks raised his white head, sat back and admired his handiwork for a moment, a satisfied smile brightening his lined face.

“You’ve been very brave, my lad,” he said approvingly, patting Frodo’s calf. “You should be alright. Of course you’ll want to go easy for about two weeks at least, until I release you from those stitches. Don’t walk too much, and take your bath with your foot outside the tub. I’m sure Samwise here will gladly assist you.” Sam smiled reassuringly and squeezed Frodo’s hand.

“That goes without saying, Mr. Frodo,” he stated earnestly, hoping he sounded like a serious and dependable hobbit. Seeing as he was desperately trying to chase the image of Frodo naked in the bathtub and himself assisting him out of his head, he was not certain he had succeeded.

****

Sam was very busy the next week. It was the heart of summer, and he had a lot to do in the garden. He was also intent on preventing Frodo from doing anything more taxing than sitting in an armchair reading and drinking tea, so he was spending his days running from the garden to the kitchen in a frenzy of activity. He had only thought about the love spell a couple of times. He knew he should give the pins back to Daisy and the book to Frodo, but he kept forgetting about it, and the doll lay forgotten in the tool shed while Sam was going about his business.

It was not that Frodo was being a demanding convalescent, though, quite the contrary. He never complained and seldom asked Sam for help. He managed to take his bath alone and limped about the smial, leaning on the cane Bilbo had bought when he turned ninety and never used, and he graciously let Sam slid an arm around his waist every time he wanted to go for a stroll in the garden, even though Sam was certain the support was not entirely necessary. Sam had never feel so close nor so useful to Frodo in his whole life, and a part of himself he was not entirely proud of was starting to consider the incident with the cow a rather fortunate event. 

The lovely feeling lasted for a week, until Frodo had another accident.

When it happened, they were both busy in the kitchen. Sam was doing the second breakfast dishes, while Frodo sat at the table slicing tomatoes for lunch, a task that, as he had assured repeatedly, was no real hardship for a convalescent. Frodo was in a very good mood, joking about the apparently inexhaustible avalanche of goods the Cottons had been sending to Bag End even since the incident with the cow. Suddenly Sam heard him gasp, then curse, loudly and quite uncharacteristically. Startled, he turned round just in time to see Frodo drop the knife to the floor and clutch his hand to his chest. Blood started welling out instantly, bright red in the shadowy kitchen.

With a cry of dismay, Sam ran to Frodo and gently removed the clenched hand from the already drenched shirt.

“What happened, Mr. Frodo? Let me see! Are you alright?” he asked frantically, then winced at his own stupidity. It was quite obvious Mr. Frodo was not alright. He had not cut his hand for pleasure!

“I just have to say you’re entirely too good at sharpening knives, Sam,” Frodo answered with a calmness that contrasted strongly with Sam’s agitation. His voice sounded tight, though, and rightly so: there was blood everywhere, on the table, on the tomatoes, on the floor even, and Sam could see his master’s left forefinger was cut to the bone and the long gash gaped widely. He suppressed a wave of queasiness at the sight. It was clear that Frodo would need Dr. Banks’ services again, and soon.

Sam left Frodo sitting at the table with his hand soaking in a basinful of cold water laced with disinfectant and ran down the Hill to fetch the healer, hoping his master would not bleed to death during his absence. He found the old doctor in his kitchen, frying potatoes for lunch, and although he had instantly agreed to come with Sam to Bag End, he took what felt to Sam like an absurdely long time to put the pan on a trivet and extra bandages in his bag.

Frodo was still alive when they came back, although he looked a little green about the gills and was making an obvious effort not to glance at the basin, which looked like it was filled with a good gallon of his blood. 

“My, my, Mr. Baggins! It seems you’re very unlucky these days, or clumsier than usual,” Dr. Banks exclaimed cheerfully as he set his bag on the table. He rolled up his sleeves and took Frodo’s hand delicately in his own, unheeding of the blood.

“I prefer unlucky, I think. It’s more dignified than clumsy, and it won’t give me the impression I’m the author of my own ruin,” Frodo answered with a wry smile. The healer chuckled and, adusting his spectacles on his ruddy nose, started examining the cut. As Sam was very pleased to see, it had almost stopped bleeding.

“Mmmm… Ruin is definitely too strong a word in your case, Mr. Baggins,” Dr. Banks said after a little while. “You’ll just have another set of stiches tonight, is all. That could be much worse. Now, be a good lad and grip Samwise’s hand. I have my work cut out for me, if I may put it like that,” he concluded with a giggle that Sam found quite tasteless. He took Frodo’s hand in his own, holding it firmly as the healer set to work, and was rewarded by a gaze that made his heart swell and his throat tighten.

****

The stitching went smoothly, and after that everything came back to normal once again, the bandages adorning Frodo’s foot and hand nothwistanding, but Sam found it impossible to recapture the feeling of happiness from the past week. He was on edge, and the conversation between Frodo and the healer kept playing in his mind, particularly the part about Frodo’s potential bad luck. 

Sam could not help wondering whether it had something to do with the love spell, and the idea frightened him so much that he rejected it as soon as it sprang to his mind. Coincidences could happen, after all, even in the Shire. Surely there was no need to resort to magic in order to explain why Frodo had been hurt twice in one week.

The uneasy feeling lingered though, nearly spoiling the unprecedented intimacy Frodo and he were sharing ever since his master had been hurt for the second time. His bandaged finger made impossible for Frodo to button his shirt and breeches on his own, and he had to ask Sam for help several times a day. Sam was more than happy to oblige, and it was obvious that Frodo enjoyed having Sam’s hands on him, if his shallow breathing and flushed cheeks everytime Sam’s fingers brushed his chest and crotch were anything to go by. Unfortunately for them both, Sam was not the kind of lad to take advantage of his disabled fellow hobbit, even if he was in love with him. It was a trait of character he had inherited from his Gaffer, and he found himself very sorry he was his father’s worthy son in that regard.

But as a few days passed and nothing untoward happened to his master, Sam began to relax a little. Frodo had the stiches in his foot removed, and although he had still to be careful when walking, he did not need Bilbo’s cane any longer –nor did he need Sam’s arm around his waist to help him negotiate the steepest places in the garden, much to Sam’s regret. But Frodo’s renewed nimbleness also proved that the love spell had not had lasting effects. Provided that it had been the cause of Frodo’s misfortunes in the first place, of course, which was very improbable anyway, as Sam was valiantly trying to convince himself.

Frodo’s third accident destroyed his hard-won peace of mind completely.

Actually it was not an accident. On the morning of the day he had to have the stiches in his finger removed, Frodo appeared in the kitchen still wearing his nightshirt, his eyes so red and puffy that he was barely able to open them. Sam was scrambling eggs for Frodo’s first breakfast, and he nearly fainted when he saw his master’s face.

“What… what happened to you, Mr. Frodo? Your eyes…” he stammered, his own eyes bulging with horrified surprise. Frodo collapsed into a chair with a tired sigh.

“They look awful, don’t they? They feel awful too, as though I’ve got grit in them I can’t get rid of. I really don’t know what happened. I was fine last night when I went to bed. At least this time Dr. Banks won’t say I’m a victim of my own clumsiness…” he groaned, rubbing his irritated eyes with an annoyed grimace.

Overwhelmed with compassion and an irrepressible need to comfort his master, Sam crossed the kitchen and, sinking to his knees before him, leaned forward and hugged him to his chest. Frodo froze in surprise for a moment, then returned the hug warmly. For the first time in his life, Sam was holding Frodo in his arms, and that felt so good that he thought he would never be able to let go. Frodo’s body was slim, almost thin, but his muscles were hard, and his embrace so strong it was almost painful.

“I’ll fetch Dr. Banks at once, Mr. Frodo,” Sam whispered against the fragrant skin of Frodo’s neck, and was surprised to feel him shake his head.

“Thank you, Sam, but for the sake of my health I believe we’d better let Dr. B. have his breakfast first,” he answered, extricating himself from Sam’s embrace and giving Sam’s shoulders a gentle squeeze. “And I’ll have you know that unlike my eyes, my stomach seems to be in working order, and I think I’d like to have something to eat before enduring another medical examination, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, Mr. Frodo! ” Sam cried, jumping to his feet to retrieve the bowl of eggs. There was nothing he could do for Frodo’s eyes, but cooking a tasty and copious breakfast was definitely his domain.

****

“It’s exactly what I inferred from Samwise’s rather… well, colourful description: you’ve got one of the most spectacular cases of conjunctivitis I’ve seen in years, Mr. Baggins,” Dr. Banks stated, his tone filled with genuine professional satisfaction. “But I can assure you, you aren’t going to lose sight, so you can breathe again, you and Samwise as well,” the healer laughed as he watched Sam sag in relief against the kitchen wall. Then he turned his attention toward Frodo again, and his expression grew serious.

“Now, Mr. Baggins, you’ll want to take better care of your health. It’s not that I’m not happy to see you, you’re a very nice patient, but you’re obviously going through a bad patch, and I know from experience that often these series of misfortunes don’t happen without reason. Foot, hand, eyes… What’s next, I ask you?”

Sam did not hear the rest of Dr. Banks’ tirade. As soon as the old doctor uttered the words foot, hand and eyes, it was as though ice replaced blood in his veins and his heart was about to freeze in his chest. With a sickening clarity, he saw himself again in the tool shed, jabbing pins into the doll’s feet, hands and eyes, then into its ears and chest. And every time he had stuck a pin into the doll, Sam realized in horror, he had actually stabbed his beloved. 

Magic worked well and truly, then, but he should have known better: it was not meant to fall into the hands of a incompetent ninny like him. He had made some stupid mistake, and now Frodo was paying dearly for it

Sam’s first impulse was to destroy the cursed doll. Muttering indistinct apologies, he left the kitchen in haste and ran to the tool shed, filled with the absolute certainty he had to stop the spell from doing further harm to Frodo. He took the doll out of the chest with unsteady hands and put it roughly on the work bench, ready to remove the pins from the dratted creature, when a disturbing thought sprang to his mind. As the unfortunate events of the past few weeks had proved it, the doll and Frodo were mysteriously but incontestably bound together, and Sam became aware he did not have the slightest idea of what would happen to Frodo if the doll was destroyed or the pins were removed from it. 

Sam felt hot tears well up in his eyes as it dawned on him that he was totally, desperately helpless, and this was his own doing. He would not take the risk of making things worse, not when Frodo’s health was at stake. Nothing was left for him but to keep a close watch over Frodo and try his best to make sure his master did not suffer irreparably because of his besotted gardener. 

****

The few next days were an ordeal. Sam was constantly afraid and watched his master’s every move like a hawk. Such attentive vigilance could not go unnoticed, and Frodo’s insight had not suffered from his conjunctivitis. He kept teasing Sam about his fussing over him, assuring he was not so clumsy that he did need a keeper, but Sam could see his master was genuinely grateful for Sam’s attentions, and it nearly broke his heart. Frodo had never been so affectionate, and Sam had never felt so undeserving of his master’s friendship. Every time he helped Frodo put drops into his eyes, that beloved face, so beautiful and trusting, a few inches away from his own, he felt like crying, and had to fight the urge to throw himself to Frodo’s knees and confess to his criminal behaviour. But even Frodo’s proverbial kindness had a limit, Sam thought, and he was certain that such an unconsidered action would put an abrupt end to their friendship, so he kept mum about the spell and waited. It was an awful, excruciating wait, and the fact he knew perfectly he deserved every minute of that torture did not make it easier to bear.

He was so anxious that the day he saw Frodo come back from Hobbiton sporting a huge –and slightly ridiculous- bandage on his left ear and a half-irritated, half-amused expression on his face, what he felt was mostly relief.

“I swear it’s the last time I had my hair cut by Widow Grumble! She’s a dear, and she’s cut Bilbo’s hair for fifty years, but nowadays her hands shake a bit too much for my peace of mind. I’d like to keep my ears pointed, thank you very much!” Frodo said, answering Sam’s question before ever he managed to open his mouth. 

Fingering his dressing, he went right to his bedroom. There was a stunned silence, then a giggle. Sam followed him into the room and saw that Frodo had removed the bandage from his ear and was laughing heartily at his reflection.

“I understand now why Dr. Banks laughed so hard when he saw me! I really look like a fool, don’t I, Sam? I’ve got a bald foot, red eyes, a forked ear, and to crown it all, a bad haircut. As Dr. Banks said, what’s next, I ask you?”

****

Sam had a pretty good idea of what might come next, and the image of the ninth pin stuck into the doll’s chest had him so worried that he was barely sleeping, leaving Bag End only when he was sure Frodo was safely tucked up in bed and going back at the crack of dawn. Daisy had a thoughtful expression on her round face every time she saw her brother leave, but the Gaffer sounded very proud of his son’s conscientiousness, and Sam broke out in cold sweat just thinking of his father discovering how he had been neglecting Bag End garden lately. 

As for Frodo, he did not seem to mind Sam’s almost constant presence at his side, even if he once had to assure Sam that he was probably able to go to the bathroom without harming himself. It had taken Sam’s cheeks several hours to cool down after that discussion and he tried hard to be more discreet, but the truth was that he was ready to endure a lot more than a moment’s embarrassment in order to make sure Frodo was safe.

So he kept a watchful eye on Frodo, shadowing him every time his master took a walk or ran an errand, and making the first move when Frodo was about to do something as rash as peeling an apple or sharpening a pencil. Only when Frodo was in bed or ensconsed in his armchair, reading a book, was Sam able to relax a little, and even then his mind was not entirely at ease. He had the distinct feeling the spell was still working and the effects of magic were rather unpredictable, as Sam learnt it to his –or rather Frodo’s- cost.

Sam was confirmed in his opinion about magic in a final and very spectacular way on a September afternoon, two weeks before Frodo and Bilbo’s birthday. He was putting away preserves in the pantry and Frodo, free at last of any bandage, was writing some letters in the study. Everything was peaceful and silent, and Sam felt a little sleepy, drowsily lining up jars after jars on the shelves and yawning like a cavern every two minutes.

A loud crash and a cry roused him from his somnolence. Fear galvanized him, and he ran as fast as his legs could carry him to the study, bracing himself to stand the sight of whatever was waiting for him behind the door. But nothing could have prepared him for the spectacle that greeted his eyes when he opened it.

Frodo was sitting motionless in his chair, hands clutching his chest. The front of his shirt was entirely red, and so were his hands and the blotter on the desk. Shards of glass were scattered all over the floor.

With a desperate cry, Sam threw himself at Frodo’s feet, patting him frantically everywhere with one hand and pushing the soaked shirt up with the other to try and find where the injuries were situated.

“Mr. Frodo… Oh, Frodo, I’m so sorry! Please, talk to me, tell me… Where are you hurt?…Oh please, tell me! Tell me!” he stammered over and over, so overwhelmed with panic and sorrow that he did not feel Frodo stir under him nor did he hear him trying to speak. He got the fright of his life when firm hands grabbed his shoulders and gave him a shake.

“Sam… Sam… SAM! Calm down and listen to me! I’m fine, I’ve just dropped the bottle of red ink. Dr. Banks was right after all, I’m really an oaf!”

It took a moment for Sam to make out the meaning of Frodo’s words, but as it slowly dawned on him that Frodo was indeed alright and the last part of the spell was likely over, he all but melted in relief against Frodo’s chest, face buried in the stained shirt. He forgot all about place and correctness and hugged him with all his might, allowing himself the pleasure to hold his master, knowing that he was safe at last. Frodo stayed still for a long moment, then Sam felt wiry arms wrap around him, returning the embrace, and he heard Frodo sigh deeply.

Sam raised his head slowly, and when Frodo leaned forward and their mouths met, Sam felt no surprise, only awe. He had never dared to hope that could ever occur, and now that he was in Frodo’s arms, sharing this achingly sweet first kiss, it felt so right and familiar that he wondered why he had ever had any doubt about it. 

Frodo’s mouth was soft and tasted of tea and faintly of ink, and opened eagerly under Sam’s. Their embrace tightened, and when Sam reluctantly came up for air, he realized they had somehow slid down the chair without breaking the kiss and ended up on the floor. Sam was lying on top of Frodo with all his weight, a little afraid of crushing him, but Frodo did not seem to mind their position. Actually it seemed he was enjoying it tremendously. His legs were wrapped around Sam’s hips, his hands were roaming Sam’s body restlessly, and he arched his back, moaning softly into Sam’s mouth. Sam gasped as he felt Frodo’s arousal pressing against his own, and he grabbed his master’s hips to increase the delightful contact.

Things went a little confused after that. Sam’s world was reduced to the feel of Frodo in his arms, kissing and writhing, all silky skin and hard muscle under wet fabric, and the harsh sound of their ragged breathing, until nothing existed but the unstoppable rush of pleasure washing through him, and Frodo’s exultant cry as heat spread between them.

If someone had told Sam that someday he would lie on the floor on top of his master and be perfectly happy and relaxed, he would have laughed his head off. And now he was lying on the rug in Bag End study, snuggled up in Frodo’s arms, both of them wearing clothes stained with red ink and semen, and he was indeed perfectly happy and relaxed, more than he had ever been in his life. He kept searching his heart for traces of guilt or embarrassment but could only find peace and a wonderful feeling of plenitude that Frodo appeared to share, if the kisses and tender caresses he was smothering Sam with were any indication. They talked about little things like the very distant necessity for them to get up and have a quick wash, or the exact colour of Sam’s eyes, or how happy they were that Frodo had dropped the bottle of ink. 

At last Frodo sat up, stretching like a satisfied cat. He stared at Sam thoughtfully for a moment, then said softly: 

“You know, Sam, I was afraid this… us, together…” he gestured vaguely “…would never happen, and I was quite desperate. Truth to tell, I was almost ready to try that love spell we found in Uncle Dudo’s book… the one I lent to you, do you remember? You looked so unattainable… I’ve been sorely tempted, even if I knew those spells were dubious. I should have know magic wasn’t necessary…” With that he leaned forward and gathered Sam in his arms again with a satisfied little sound.

Sam found himself completely at a loss for words. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, but there was no power in Middle-earth, magical or otherwise, that could have given him an idea for what he could answer to Frodo’s remark, so he wisely chose to kiss him instead.

Maybe someday he would muster up the courage to tell Frodo the tale of his Ma’s love pins and the magic spell. But not today. Today he had Frodo in his arms, and it was all the magic he needed.


End file.
